A Poet's Dragon Research

Scholars at The British Museum discovered the following script wedged behind a cabinet in a storage room. Originally written in Middle English, the provenance of the scroll was unknown, but later dated to the 14th century. The text below is a modern translation of that scroll.

My name is Caribun Karmax Fim. I am a dragon, one of the last dragons to hold council with humans. I possess a centuries-old story that fills me with sadness to remember, but a story that should be preserved and remembered.

Before continuing, let me thank you for taking this dictation. Dragon claws struggle with quill and ink, so we rely upon humans in matters of manual dexterity. The irony is that most Dragons love books. We adore stories, histories, and the intricacies of language. And our eyes can read small-print text in low light at a dozen yards. But the mechanics of penmanship eludes us. Such a strange quirk of fate that we should be so poor at writing yet so adept at reading. One of the many reasons humans and dragons make great allies.

As I mentioned, this story dates back many centuries. I was so young then, having not yet toured the continents as elder dragons always encourage. The world was young then too, with few castles or cities dotting the landscape.

I worked as a banker. Back then, dragons were trusted financial and security agents, credited for our long-term thinking, acute senses, and proclivity for sleeping on valuables for years at a time.

This story opens on a cool autumn evening. The pleasant smell of changing leaves wafted to me in the mountain hollow that was my home and place of employment. I could feel the subtle shift in the air around me, tightening ever so slightly as things cooled. It felt cozy.

I lay on a great pile of coins in the largest chamber of a cave system in the north of this country. Those coins were deposited by local lords, merchants, tradesfolk, farmers, and laborers of all sorts. Locally, everyone knew the safety of investing with a dragon bank. And, despite my youth, I had a reputation for never losing a deposit or skimping on interest. My mountain hold was as secure a place for valuables as any human had ever known.

I didn’t expect a visitor, having no appointments scheduled and knowing humans rarely travel so late. Yet, on this evening, I distinctly heard the sound of footsteps at the primary ingress into the cave system, footsteps I didn’t recognize.

I heard flint strike steel and the crackle of a torch, followed by those footsteps striding down the long, gentle slope toward the hollow where I waited. The visitor’s pace proved confident; even and consistent to the point of forced assurance. Before long I could smell him: clearly a man, middle-aged, and just the slightest hint of the fear odor.

But as this man drew to within a hundred paces of my chamber he stopped, and I distinctly heard him whisper: “You can do this Alfred. Just got to ask the old dragon a few questions.”

Clearly this man didn’t know how attuned a dragon’s senses become to our homes, how thoroughly we learn the acoustics and elemental compositions of our abodes over decades of focus and meditation. No sparrow, rat, or worm could ever make its home inside a dragon’s lair undetected, and no practiced burglar could ever sneak up on a dragon in their home.

As this Alfred approached the hollow, I blew a lick of flame onto a granite boulder near the entrance, lighting it with an inner fire that illuminated the chamber. The man reared back in surprise, though only for a moment. I was surprised by how quickly he gained his composure at being confronted.

“Oh, I’m most sorry,” he said, removing his woolen coif and meeting my gaze. “I should have announced myself. I thought I still had a ways to walk.”

The man who stood before me proved short, balding with light hair, and slender but with broad shoulders. Many humans think dragons mark little difference in the appearance of humans, but we do.

“You announced yourself in many ways,” I replied, perhaps a bit cheekily.

“My name is Alfred.” And he bowed low. Not standard courtesy, but pleasant.

“Greetings Alfred,” I said, “what brings you to my bank so late in the evening?”

“I had a few questions for you,” he started “Miss, ma’am, madam, dragon… I suppose my first question is what may I call you?”

“You may call me Fim.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Fim.” His voice proved sonorous despite his ordinary appearance, and I noted how his language grew more formal and erudite as we settled into conversation.

“And you have come to ask me questions. What about?”

“About what it’s like to be a dragon. And about how you guard a great hoard of treasure like this.”

“What brings on this curiosity?”

“I am a traveler and a poet. I was born not a hundred miles from here, but I’ve journeyed the lands, trading story and verse for room and board. In my travels, I occasionally hear tales of wondrous monsters, such as yourself, and I make it a habit to meet them, if possible. Stories and poems are always more believable if you’ve got experiences to back them up.”

“You seek out monsters. So you consider me a monster?”

“A poor choice of words. You are clearly a most elegant creature. I expected you to be impressive and perhaps even frightening. But I hadn’t expected you to also be… beautiful, if I may say. I hadn’t expected your scales to be so even, or to appear so soft at distance, or to gleam in the light you yourself created. I’d expected to struggle to hide my fear and find my words, but you’ve put me at ease already.”

“You are a fine flatterer, at least,” I replied, trying to sound neutral in tone.

“I’d heard of other dragon banks on the continent: one along the Rhine, another deep in the country of the old Romans. But they required appointments and proof of depositable wealth, which I am sadly lacking. You’re the only one I’d heard of that allows anyone to simply walk in. Most accommodating of you.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, intent on staying dubious for now: “What other monsters or ‘elegant creatures’ have you met?”

“Met? Very few. But I have viewed a manticore on the wing. I’ve seen the track of the Nile crocodile. And I’ve spied a sea serpent on the horizon on a trip across the channel! And one night I could swear I was bewitched by a fairy. But none of these creatures are as civilized as dragons, and so I never had the honor of conversing with any of them… other than one at least.”

And he paused, intentionally I assume, to let me ask the obvious question.

“So what is this other fantastical creature that you conversed with?”

“I hoped you would ask,” he replied with a grin. “It happened just this past year, on a trip to the land of the Danes across the treacherous Northern Sea. What a wild land that is! I’d heard reports of a clan of giants who lived on the fens. I spent a year’s savings on a guide and trinkets to trade with the giants. The journey to the fens chilled me to the bone with fear, even in daylight hours. I imagined monstrous arms and jagged teeth in every moss-covered tree and wretched bog!”

“You met and spoke with giants?” I asked, quite astonished. “They’ve so distanced themselves from civilization I’m surprised any human could gain such an audience.”

“Ah, but there was only one fellow who was willing to meet me and only then because he was so interested in the baubles I brought as gifts. His name sounded like a growl, just a long ‘grrrrrr,’ and he barely knew the Dane language well enough to converse with my interpreter.

“And I must say, he was a sadder, shabbier fellow than I expected. An imposing physical specimen, of course, nine feet tall if he was an inch. But he was so… bitter. The main thing he wanted to talk about was how desirous he was of humans, and more specifically of the things we owned: swords, plows, flocks of sheep, guildhalls and all that.

“Were I a braver man I’d have taught him how we acquired all these pleasantries, learned various skills which we then taught our children. But I’m not sure the poor fellow could have been made to understand. Mostly I was astonished that such a creature had such a capacity for… jealousy one might say.

“I listened to him gripe for hours, but then something even more unexpected happened: his mother showed up. She didn’t speak the Dane language, only the guttural tongue of the giants. But she clearly resented my presence, kept pointing at me and spitting curses, or what I assumed were curses.

“My escorts and I cleared out fast, and I came to understand later that Mrs. Giant thought we meant her son harm. She thought all humans were dangerous. With her curses she threatened vengeance upon me if I hurt her son. I guess mothers everywhere can get that way about their children. Either one of them could have ripped my head off without a second thought, but the son envied me and the mother hated me.”

Alfred grew quiet, and we both sat in silence for many moments. When he spoke again, Alfred had taken on a distant tone, and he didn’t meet my gaze when he said: “Have you heard of the Seven Sins? When I last traveled to the south of the continent, everyone was talking about Pope Gregory’s latest pronouncement.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of The Seven Sins.” I replied.

“I only bring them up because the giants so clearly embodied one of those sins each. The son just reeked of envy, and his mother, wrath. He was as jealous as Cain, I even remarked on it at the time. That’s the original deadly sin, you know; Cain watched his brother gain greater favor with God, and that drove him to the first murder. And then the giant’s mother, she was ready to punish me before I’d even caused an offense. What a strange pair they were.”

I could see why Alfred had been able to make a living as a traveling storyteller. I found myself sympathetic to him, though his words disturbed me. I sought to change the subject, so I said: “You had some questions for me.”

“Yes,” he began, shaking off his vacant stare, “would you tell me about how your institution works? I’ve heard tales about dragon banks over the years, they sound almost like magic. How can you possibly keep track of all this wealth? Keep it all safe and secure, while also sometimes lending money out and even paying people for keeping their money here?”

So I explained the power of compound interest, the basics of ledgers, and standard loan terms. I will spare you a rundown of the basics of banking, now thoroughly developed by your Medicis and other powerful families.

Alfred’s barely feigned interest. His eyelids drooped as I explained the sorts of loans a bank could make: for trade voyages, home repairs, great hall construction, and so on. I was sure that, once I finished this lecture, this small man would have had enough and take his leave. But he didn’t.

“Oh. Oh.” He said when I was finished, like he’d just woken from a nap. But his next words showed a certain shrewdness: “So, you’re like the guard for all this treasure. You keep it safe with your sharp eyes and fiery breath, and you loan it out to people to build things. But what do you get out of it? Where’s your reward?”

“First,” I replied, “ I don’t arrange the loans. I keep track of every item in this hold, but it’s humans in the city who keep the ledgers and negotiate terms.”

“You track all of this in your head?” And he gestured all around at the piles of coins, the handicrafts, even some sculptures and items of gold.

“Yes. The mind of a dragon often runs slower than that of a human, but we can order the world like a grand library. I know the provenance of every coin in this chamber. There are one hundred and fifteen thousand, seven hundred and ninety-seven of them, by the way. And to your point regarding recompense, I receive food and acceptance for my work, and once a year I go to the city where cobblers check me for mites.”

Alfred scrunched up his face in annoyance, apparently uninterested in these details of cooperation. I’ve rarely known a human to show such impudence around a dragon. Finally, he found his next avenue of interrogation.

“I see,” and he placed his hand to his chin in an exaggerated show of contemplation, “So you act as security for this hoard?”

“Yes.”

“And you can tell if anything goes missing?”

“Yes.”

“And what would you do if something did go missing?”

“It depends upon the specifics. My policy is to not allow anything to go missing.”

“Well, say I took something.” And he strolled over to a pile of handicrafts. “I broke my pewter traveling cup recently. What if I managed to steal one of these silver ones?”

“You wouldn’t manage it.”

“But what if I did?”

“Well,” and here I thought I might properly scare him, “I would have the lawful sanction to knock you down and retrieve the cup as you fled. If you escaped this cave, I would pursue you in flight and send you tumbling down the mountain path with the power of my wings. Or, if you decided to fight me with a sword or bow, I could incinerate you on the spot.”

Alfred grew quiet. He didn’t tremble or shrink before me, but held his coif in both hands with an ever-tightening grip. I admit to some satisfaction in making this intrusive man afraid.

“And if somehow you absconded with the cup to town,” I continued, “and sold that cup to a shopkeeper, and that shopkeeper and all in his employ conspired to conceal this crime, I would have every lawful right to burn that shop to the ground to reclaim the property. Of course I wouldn’t take such drastic action… probably.”

I’ll never forget Alfred’s demeanor in response. He was still clearly fearful as I loomed over him. The hairs on his head and his arms stood up tall, and his skin grew pale. I could smell the perspiration coming off his brow despite the growing cold.

And yet he was smiling. And not some false rictus, but a full-toothed grin of delight. I recall the image clearly all these centuries later: he was missing an upper incisor and a lower early molar.

“Oh! Oh that’s good.” He said. “Yes, yes, that’s perfect. Thank you ever so much Fim.”

And I realized I must have given him exactly what he wanted. He wanted me to scare him, to provide him an image of monstrous possibilities. We locked eyes for many moments, that same silly grin holding on his face.

“I must be running along before the sun sets entirely, if it hasn’t already,” he said finally. “ I'm in the middle of composing an epic story, and I want to write a few words before I go to bed. Thank you again!”

And the little man bowed once more, then turned and began scrambling back the way he came, affixing his coif as he went. He had a little skip in his step. I never met him again.

Perhaps you can guess what legendary tale this poet spun. When I heard the epic poem decades later, I knew who’d crafted it. It’s the tale of a great hero and slayer of monsters, who battles an envious giant, then that giant’s wrathful mother, then an avaricious dragon who scorches the land in response to a stolen goblet. This story is still popular today: Beowulf. It is of little comfort that no one remembers the man who wrote the story.

This is not the primary reason that humans and dragons no longer cooperate on a grand scale, or why giants have been driven to the far corners of the wilderness, but I think stories like this sped our division. And I feel both culpable and betrayed, feelings which haven’t diminished in the proceeding millennia.

So you bring me comfort, that you willingly met a monster as dangerous as I, and took dictation of this story. This is a favor worthy of a royal reward. And I hope that one day, meetings of this kind between humans and dragons won’t seem strange or scary. Perhaps in another thousand years.